“What will happen?” This question has haunted me most of my life. Sometimes the thought arises, “When did this begin, this unnatural fear of life?”

But the question is unnecessary; it simply doesn’t matter. It’s been part of this particular life pattern, that’s all.

I spent much of my mental life thinking about, and preparing for, worst-case scenarios so if they did come to pass, I might be prepared, or at least the feared event wouldn’t blindside me. But when I think back to the scary and outrageous events that have occurred in my life, I never come close to imagining any of them. All of that creative mental energy worrying, spent for naught.

But blindsiding showed up anyway, because reality is more wild, more ludicrous, more spectacular than our insubstantial minds can conjure. Twenty-one years ago, I was struck by the butt-end of a huge falling oak branch. As soon as my husband rushed to my side, I asked him, “Am I going to die?” He had the good common sense to tell me no. But there was my most basic question, “What will happen?”

The delicious beauty and ease is in letting the question go. Any future or past that we might obsess about is only a thought that occurs now. So when the question arises–much less often these days–as soon as I notice my old companion, so very, very familiar, I set it gently down, and return here.